‘But not quite so recently. You were away when Mary Blakiston died.’
‘I already told you that, when we met outside the church.’
‘You said you were in Devonshire.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Where exactly?’
The vicar seemed nonplussed. He turned his head away and his wife broke in angrily. ‘Why are you asking us these questions, Mr Pünd? Do you really think that Robin and I made it up about being away? Do you think we sneaked back and pushed poor Mrs Blakiston down the stairs? What possible reason could we have? And I suppose we lopped off Sir Magnus’s head to save Dingle Dell even though it may not make a jot of difference. His beastly son might go ahead with it anyway.’
Atticus Pünd spread his hands and sighed. ‘Mrs Osborne, you do not understand the demands of police and detective work. Of course I do not believe the things that you suggest and it gives me no pleasure to ask you these questions. But everything must be in its place. Every statement must be verified, every movement examined. It may be that you do not wish to tell me where you were. Eventually, you will have to tell the Inspector. I am sorry if you consider it an intrusion.’
Robin Osborne glanced at his wife who replied. ‘Of course we don’t mind telling you. It’s just not very nice being treated as suspects. If you talk to the manager of the Sheplegh Court Hotel, he’ll tell you we were there all week. It’s near Dartmouth.’
‘Thank you.
They turned and walked back through Dingle Dell; Pünd and Robin Osborne in front, Henrietta and James Fraser behind. ‘It was of course you who officiated at the funeral of Mrs Blakiston,’ Pünd said.
‘That’s right. It was lucky we were back in time, although I suppose I could always have cut my holiday short.’
‘I wonder if you remarked upon a person who was unknown to the village. He was standing on his own, I believe, separate from the other mourners. I have been told that he was wearing an old-fashioned hat.’
Robin Osborne considered. ‘There was someone there wearing a Fedora, I think,’ he said. ‘They left quite abruptly as I recall. But I’m afraid I can’t tell you very much more than that. As you can imagine, I had my mind on other things. He certainly didn’t come for drinks at the Queen’s Arms.’
‘Did you happen to notice Robert Blakiston during the service? I would be interested to know your impressions of how he behaved.’
‘Robert Blakiston?’ They had reached the clump of belladonna and Osborne was careful to avoid it. ‘I wonder why you’re asking about him,’ he went on. ‘If you must know, I feel rather sorry for him. I heard about the argument he had with his mother. The village was full of gossip after she died. I wasn’t having any of it. I think people can be quite cruel – or thoughtless, anyway. Often it’s the same thing. I can’t say I know Robert very well. He hasn’t had an easy life but he’s found himself a young lady now and I couldn’t be more pleased for him. Miss Sanderling works at the doctor’s surgery and I’m sure she’ll help him settle down. The two of them have asked me to marry them at St Botolph’s. I’m very much looking forward to it.’
He paused, then went on.
‘He and his mother quarrelled. That’s common knowledge. But I was observing him throughout the service – he and Josie were standing quite close to me – and I would have said he was genuinely grieving. When I reached the last paragraph of my address he started crying and covered his eyes to hide the tears and Josie had to take his arm. It’s hard for a boy to lose his mother no matter what the feelings between them and I’m sure he bitterly regretted what he had said. Speak in haste, repent at leisure as the old saying goes.’
‘What was your opinion of Mary Blakiston?’
Osborne didn’t answer at once. He continued walking until they had emerged once again in the vicarage garden. ‘She was very much part of the village. She’ll be missed,’ was all he said.
‘I would be interested to see the funeral address,’ Pünd said. ‘Would you by any chance have a copy?’
‘Really?’ The vicar’s eyes brightened. He had put a lot of work into the speech. ‘As a matter of fact, I did hang on to it. I’ve got it inside. Are you coming back in? Never mind. I’ll get it for you.’
He hurried in through the French windows. Pünd turned in time to see Fraser emerge from Dingle Dell with the vicar’s wife, the light slanting down behind them. It was true, he thought. The wood was a very special place, somewhere worth protecting.
But at what price?
7
That afternoon, there was another death.
Dr Redwing had driven back to Ashton House and this time her husband had accompanied her. The call from the matron had come that afternoon and although she had said nothing specific, there could be no mistaking the tone of her voice. ‘It might be best if you were here. I do think you should come.’ Dr Redwing had made similar calls herself. Old Edgar Rennard had not, after all, recovered from the slight fall he had taken the week before. On the contrary, it seemed to have jolted or broken something and since then he had begun a rapid slide. He had barely been awake since his daughter’s last visit. He had eaten nothing, taken only a few sips of water. The life was visibly draining out of him.
Arthur and Emilia were sitting on the uncomfortable furniture in the overly bright room, watching the rise and fall of the old man’s chest beneath the blankets. They both knew what the other was thinking but didn’t like to put it into words. How long would they have to sit here? At what time would it be reasonable to call it a day and go back home? Would they blame themselves if they weren’t there at the end? In the end, would it make any difference?
‘You can go if you like,’ Emilia said, eventually.
‘No. I’ll stay with you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Of course.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘That would be nice.’
It was impossible to have any sort of conversation in a room with a dying man. Arthur Redwing got to his feet and shuffled off to the kitchenette at the end of the corridor. Emilia was left on her own.
And that was when Edgar Rennard opened his eyes, quite unexpectedly, as if he had merely nodded off in front of the television. He saw her at once and showed not the least surprise. Perhaps, in his mind, she had never gone away for he returned almost at once to the subject he had raised the last time they were together. ‘Did you tell him?’ he asked.
‘Did I tell who, Papa?’ She wondered whether she ought to call Arthur back. But she was afraid of raising her voice or doing anything that might disturb the dying man.